Night Visitors.

I have anxiety attacks at night. I wake up, absolutely convinced that there are people in my apartment. Specifically, greys. Aliens. Like the ones from Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Those guys. I am convinced that they do, in fact, exist and the fact that there is no actual evidence of their existence is proof positive of their complete mastery of our world/dimension. They come and go as they please, their purposes unknown. They abduct whomever they please, for nefarious, clinical experiments. They view us as we view our sheep. Animals to be taken, dissected and altered and then replaced roughly where they were found with no respect or awareness for our society or our humanity.

I secretly believe this to be so. In the world that has been conquered by science, "greys" are the last boogeymen for me.

Consequently, when in bed at night, if I wake up and see my jacket hanging on my bedroom door, I naturally assume that its a grey. Standing there, discussing my imminent abduction with the others.

This happens to me, several nights a week.

I wake up, disoriented, defensive and scared. My heart is racing. So much so, that I have to will myself to calm down, lest I spiral out into complete cardiac arrest. In the half light of my bedroom, I see figures standing around me, strange machinery, spider-like and gravity defying, and figures coming out of the walls. I see them and sometimes hear myself addressing them.

"Who's there?"

"Get out of here."

or

"Not tonight. Fuck off." (if I am feeling particularly cocky.)

Nights are turbulent for me. And its no wonder that Maggie gets up and goes to sleep on the couch. I toss and turn so much, the poor dog can get no actual sleep.

I'm serious about this. This is nearly a nightly thing for me.

Lately, I've taken to sleeping with the door to my bedroom closed. It forces Maggie to stay with me. And it blocks out the POWERFUL blast of blue light that comes from my stereo system. So powerful, that I could nearly read a book by it, if I tried. Sometimes, it hits the door in a funny way, projecting a shadow on the wall just above my head, which covinces me that someone has entered the room. So, I keep the door closed. Which drops my bedroom into near, absolute darkness.

Last night, though, the heat register was up and my room quickly warmed up. I checked the temparature on my alarm clock and it was a sweltering 78 degrees in there. Perfect weather for kicking blankets off and doing a little of the old "Toss and Turn".

And of course, with the door open, Maggie left and I saw the "Greys" in the apartment again. Only this time, I saw them not as alien visitors, but as old-timey movie gangsters, with Tommy Guns, ready to pump me fulla lead.

And I thought of this phrase and had to capture it here, in this blog...

"They moved soundlessly through the apartment, each step was quiet and precise. The furniture was laid out just as the plans said they would be. Nothing was out of place.
In the dark, they could hear their target quietly snoring in the bedroom. A deep, deep sleep. He wouldn't know what hit him. The older one smiled knowingly at the younger one.
They took out their flashlights and quickly illuminated the bedroom. A single burst of light. Almost a strobe. Enough to make out the great white, hairy expanse of his belly and the tangle of sheets that were hanging off onto the floor.
They raised their guns, quickly flicked off their safeties and took aim. The older one counted down, "5, 4, 3, 2, " and the sound of him saying "1" was drowned out by the rat a tat tat of maching gun fire. In the bedroom, dust raised and the body jerkily hopped about, riddled with bullets.
The muzzle flash from the twin guns precisely matched the electronic signal of the stereo remote control and the stereo sprang to life. The unmistakable voice of Bill O'Reilly sharply barked into the room and so startled the two men, that the young one swung over his Tommy Gun and pumped a few extra rounds into the wall-mounted stereo.
"Jesus" said the older one. And not because he requested forgiveness for the dark deed they'd just performed, but because he was genuinely scared by both the radio and by the younger ones panicky gun fire.
Later, over whiskey, they would retell the story about the how the stereo scared the "living shit" out of them and laugh about the kids pin point accuracy in silencing it. it was a story that they would tell often to friends, embellishing it over the years until it became a legend. It became The Night That Young Guy Whacked a Stereo Set."

Sleep Well, Gentle Reader.
Thank you for indulging me that I might actually be a writer.

COB out...